The Wisdom of the Georgia Pines

Tall Trees,
Georgia Pine,
but not in Georgia.
Shaking in the wind,
A storm is brewing,
The sky is gray, unclear,
Foggy, but possibly blue.
Beyond the mist,
Definitely not red,
But Purple,
Perhaps purple.

The quiet before the storm,
Could wake the dead,
Who do not know who to root for.
They always voted red before,
The yellow dogs on the porch
Under the same tall trees,
Or maybe others,
Since Georgia Pine does not last long.

Though short-lived,
They do grow tall.
Maybe I will climb on top,
To look over the fog,
Before the timber men come,
Tearing down the trees,
To print the papers.

The papers will bring the news,
of how the storm ends,
To the people on their porches,
Their yellow dogs long gone,
But the trees remain.

The ever constant trees,
Which outlast the dogs,
Even you and me,
Which return to remind us,
That on this land we are small,
Constantly in the fog,
As the trees watch,
And laugh.

They laugh at our foolishness,
At our fear of this change,
That appears unbridled by reason.
The older ones might even remember
The last great battle
When the yellow dogs went to the wolves
Who left them rotting in shallow graves
By the side of the road.

Yet the road makes me pause,
The pines would not laugh if they thought of the road,
If their oldest was not still so young,
If perhaps they were oaks,
They would remember
The men who made the road
Blazing their way though the forests,
Destroying everything in their path,
Even the tall trees,
Leaving the yellow dogs in place
Of the undisturbed forest that once was.

But the forest is back,
Returning once more,
Except for the road.
And in any forest,
The tall trees can see further
than man on his own,
Their view less obscured.

Even if they too cannot see it all,
The sight of the forest
Like Francis Scott Key's Flag,
Reminds them they are still standing,
And that things could be worse.

They could be paper,
And I could be dead.